


Fact: Marijuana Induces Time Travel

by butyoumight



Series: Crossing Parallels [1]
Category: Green Day, The Beatles
Genre: AU, Crossing Parallels, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-25
Updated: 2005-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butyoumight/pseuds/butyoumight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Mike... Look behind me. Look at who’s sitting there.”</i></p><p><i>Mike sat up a little, looking over Billie’s body to...</i></p><p><i>Four guys. In jeans and t-shirts, barefoot. One had a guitar. Two were staring at each other, and the fourth was staring at Billie, at Billie and now at Mike. Billie’s voice was squeaking at him again.</i></p><p><i>“Who is that, Mike? Tell me who that is.”</i></p><p><i>Mike cleared his throat.</i></p><p><i>“It... Um... It looks like Paul McCartney, Bill.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The most cracked out fanfic in all of history.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Mike, what the fuck was in the weed we smoked tonight?”_

Billie Joe was somewhat proud of the extent of his current state of cross-fadedness.

Granted, he wasn’t quite sure when he had ended up splayed across the coffee table in his boxers. He also didn’t really remember when his discarded pants had gotten onto Tre’s head. He did remember when Jason had simply passed out on the couch, and he was still vaguely giggling at the spectacle that was Mike tripping backwards over the arm of the sofa, ending up with his head in Jason’s lap. Jason, of course, hadn’t shifted an inch for it, nor even noticed.

Mike and Tre had shortly followed Jason’s example, and Billie could feel something from the ether tugging at his mind to join them.

Oh, now _that_ was odd. He felt as if he were _actually_ moving. Was his body truly moving into sleep? How funny.

He closed his eyes, giggling at the feeling of his body floating and drifting away.

But he wasn’t passing out. He was still awake, that much was obvious.

A crash somewhere above him jolted his mind back to focus. Was Tre or someone up and about, breaking his personal possessions?

He turned carefully onto his side, eyes squinting open.

Where was the edge of the coffee table? He opened his eyes fully, focusing slowly on four men sitting in a semi-circle around him.

Four... very _familiar_ men.

***

John had found his guitar, and was clumsily strumming a loud blues riff repeatedly, howling at the top of his lungs.

George and Ringo had inadvertently entered into an impromptu staring contest, but by any sane person’s judgement, it was long since lost, as each of them repeatedly broke the other’s gaze, dissolving into giggles at John’s serenade.

Paul was slowly returning to their gathering on the floor, carrying a tray of drinks. It took him a good quarter of an hour to cross the fifteen feet from the kitchen to where the others were sitting, as every step had to be carefully calculated before hand, for fear of spilling the tray.

He settled down slowly, arranging the tray carefully so that it was an equal distance from himself and each of his band mates. Assured that the tray was perfectly positioned, Paul picked up a glass in one hand, and a pre-rolled joint in the other. Dangling the joint from his lips, he looked around for John’s lighter. Had he pocketed it? Or...

Paul’s gaze slowly rose to scan the rest of the room. Pillows... a blanket or two. Empty whiskey bottle... four guys...

Four guys?

Paul blinked hard, the glass in his hand falling from his grip and shattering. He stared at the strewn bodies that he was pretty sure hadn’t been there a moment before.

He locked eyes with the only one that was awake, a smallish guy with piercing green eyes and messy black hair. The newcomer stared right back, his mouth moving wordlessly for a moment before he finally spoke.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

***

Billie shook his head hard, trying to force the sight of... them out of his head.

It didn’t work.

He glanced behind himself to find his band mates still unconscious. Mike was nearest at hand. Grabbing Mike’s knee hard, he shook at the bassist’s leg, hissing his name repeatedly.

“Mike... Mike, wake up... Mikey.”

Mike threw an arm over his eyes.

“Shut up, Bill.” He mumbled.

Billie’s voice rose to a high pitched squeak.

“Mikey, _wake up_.”

Mike slowly drew his arm from his eyes, glaring at the smaller man, who was still jiggling his leg.

“What do you _want_?” He growled.

“Mike, what the fuck was in the weed we smoked tonight?”

Mike raised an eyebrow.

“How the fuck am _I_ supposed to know? You bought it.”

There was a tense pause, Billie forcing himself to lock eyes with Mike. Mike blinked. Something seemed a bit off. Why was the sun up? Had they been out that long? If that was so, why did he still feel so buzzed? Hadn’t he fallen asleep on a couch? Why was he on the floor?

“Why?” He asked Billie, wondering if Billie’s distrust in their weed had something to do with this confusion.

Billie gulped. “Mike... Look behind me. Look at who’s sitting there.”

Mike sat up a little, looking over Billie’s body to...

Four guys. In jeans and t-shirts, barefoot. One had a guitar. Two were staring at each other, and the fourth was staring at Billie, at Billie and now at Mike. Billie’s voice was squeaking at him again.

“Who is that, Mike? Tell me who that is.”

Mike cleared his throat.

“It... Um... It looks like Paul McCartney, Bill.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Yeah, you know, I think we’ve determined that it’s Paul McFuckingCartney.”_

Mike reached forward, pinching Billie hard on the shoulder.

“Ow!” Billie smacked Mike’s hand. “What the fuck was that for?”

“Just making sure you’re not dreaming.”

Frowning, Billie pinched Mike back.

“Ow!”

“Why the fuck would you be in my dreams?”

Mike shrugs, rubbing absently at where he’d been pinched. “Maybe I’m not real.”

By this point, George and Ringo had given up staring at each other in favour of staring at the unrecognisable bickerers. John was still strumming away, eyes closed with emotion, unaware that anything was amiss.

Finally, Paul flung one hand out, gripping the neck of John’s guitar and pulling it from his hands.

“John.” He hissed. “We have a problem.”

John’s eyes opened directly into a glare aimed at Paul.

“What d’ye want?”

Paul pointed towards the again silent and staring Mike and Billie.

“How’d you four get in here?” He asked in what would be a threatening tone, if not for the fact that his voice was shaking.

There was a pause, and then Mike nudged Billie.

“Sounds like Paul McCartney too.”

Billie turns to stare instead at Mike.

“Yeah, you know, I think we’ve determined that it’s _Paul McFuckingCartney_.”

John giggled at this.

“Paul McFuckingCartney.” He gasped.

Mike and Billie exchanged an incredulous look. It was one think to find yourself sitting around with Paul McCartney (albeit a very _young_ Paul McCartney), but...

“J-John Lennon?” Billie whispered.

John’s eyes lit up. His guitar was still in Paul’s lap, and he was already getting bored. He thumped a fist against his chest and gave a nazi salute to the startled Billie.

“ _Ja!_ ”

Paul grabs John’s wrist, forcing his arm back down. George and Ringo glance at each other before each clapping their hands over their mouths, stifling their maddened giggles.

Tre chose this moment to roll over, grumbling.

“Wha-th-fuck’so-funny?” he mumbled into the floor. The six waking members of this strange party all turned to look at him as he flipped onto his side. He reached up to brush away... Billie’s pants? “Agh.” He flung the black jeans at their owner. Billie caught them in midair, then, with a glance back towards the Beatles, pulled them on. Tre, meanwhile, pushed his crushed fauxhawk out of his eyes, and looked at Mike and the still re-dressing Billie...

His eyes moved off his two band mates to the other people watching him. His mouth promptly fell open. There was a very long pause, then a groan from the final member of this strange gathering.

Jason sat up straight, eyes clearing quickly as he realised how many people were in the room. Hadn’t it just been Billie, Mike and Tre? When had others arrived? Who--

The eight of them stared at each other, eyes going slowly around the odd sort of circle. Finally, Jason broke the silence.

“What the _fuck_ is going on here?”

***

They had all remained still for almost an hour. Billie was beginning to feel _beyond_ sober. He didn’t think it was possible to be more sober. And yet, somehow, he was still sitting in the living room of a house he’d never seen before, with his best friends and...

The Beatles from forty years ago.

Tre had brought himself to touch John, just to make sure that this was real and not some strange group hallucination. He’d found himself with his hand on _John Lennon_ ’s knee, and almost had a heart attack.

Each party having determined that the other was real, they had finally gotten to talking.

Paul was feeling decidedly sober as well. It would have been one thing for a group of fans to maybe find a way into the house. Security or no, fans tended to be extremely resourceful. Paul could handle wayward fans just itching to meet them. It happened a lot.

But this was totally different.

For one, these four didn’t fit the bill for typical American fans. Actually, they didn’t look like anyone Paul had ever seen before in his life. These men... they had to be at least his age, if not maybe older. But the skinny one, the one called Mike, he had _earrings. Three_ of them. And they all had _tattoos_.

It hadn’t taken long for the easiest explanation to be voiced, however tentatively. And once that thought was breached, it certainly made some sort of perverted sense.

“Let me get this straight.” Paul said. “You’re from... _what_ year?”

Billie swallowed. “Two thousand and five.” He gestured with one hand. “What year is _this_?”

“Nineteen Sixty Five.” George answered, still staring.

Another long pause.

“So...” John said, one eyebrow tweaked. Tre laughed in spite of himself.

“It’s a fact! Pot causes time travel! Call the National Enquirer!”

Ringo stood up suddenly. “I need a ciggie.”

Mike looked up from the floor for the first time since they’d begun talking. “Could I... um, come with you?”

Ringo shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me.”

Mike stood up shakily, following the small drummer out to the balcony. _This_ was _king_ of all mind fucks.

Ringo pulled out his cigarettes and lighter, and handed a cigarette to Mike.

They lit up on one flame, then dragged hard and exhaled in unison.

“This is pretty fucked up.” Mike said quietly. “I mean... you guys have no idea.”

Ringo shrugged one shoulder. “I’d rather not think about it, you know?”

There was a pause.

“We’re big, when you come from?” Ringo asked quietly, looking out towards the ocean in the near distance.

Mike eyed him. This was Ringo Starr, a twenty-five year old _Ringo Starr_ he was talking to.

“The biggest.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Maybe God got bored, and saw that we were putting ourselves in a similar position. So he said, ‘hey, there are some blokes, that looks like fun’.”_

After a long cigarette punctuated by a lot of staring and marvelling on the parts of both Ringo and Mike, they ventured hesitantly back inside.

Billie and Tré were sitting side by side, staring at John and Paul who were, in turn, sitting beside each other and staring right back at Billie and Tré.

Jason, on the other hand, had risen to the occasion spectacularly and was currently holding a fairly animated discussion on the Chaos Theory with George.

“So, I think maybe that this happened, this has always happened.” Jason was saying as Mike sat back down. George nodded fervently in agreement. “I guess you guys always just forget it. Maybe our being back here has to happen for everything to happen the way it’s supposed to happen.”

“Time moves in circles, not in a line.” George said confidently. “So this probably has happened before. The same way every time.”

“So we have to be careful that we don’t fuck something up. We could fuck ourselves up. There was this story I read once, where this company invented a time machine, and they would charge people a lot of money to go back in time and kill a dinosaur, and they had it all planned out to only kill dinosaurs that were about to die anyway, and some guy freaks out, and he steps on a butterfly, and then—“

“Jason.” Mike said, prodding him in the arm. “You’re rambling.”

“Oh.” Jason blushed dully. “Sorry.”

“Oh my god!” Tré burst out, having not paid attention to anything Jason or George had been saying. “Oh my god!” his eyes lit up as he looked at John. “We can—“

Mike, knowing instinctively where Tré was going with this, somehow managed to tackle Tré from a sitting position, clamping a hand over his mouth. “You really need to pay more attention, you know that?” He hissed. Looking up towards the shocked Beatles and his confused band mates, Mike smiled sheepishly. “We need to talk. Amongst ourselves. For a second.” Scrambling to his feet, one hand gripping Tré’s collar, Mike moved off towards the balcony, beckoning at Billie and Jason to follow.

Tré exploded as soon as Mike closed the door.

“We can save his life! We can change the course of music!”

“We _can’t_ , Tré!” Mike insisted.

“Why the fuck not? It’s _John Lennon_ for Christ’s Sake!”

“I would like to warn him as much as the next, but we can’t _risk_ that.”

“We’d be saving his _life_!”

“We might change _our_ lives! We might change the rest of the world!”

“Probably for the better!”

“We can’t know that!” Mike turned on Jason, who had remained silent, along with Billie looking back and forth between the bickering drummer and bassist. “Tell him, Jason, you get it better than me. We can’t fuck around, even if it would save his life.”

Jason looked apologetically at Tré. “He’s right, you know. We don’t know what would happen if we warn him that some psycho is going to shoot him in 1980. That’s fifteen years from now. That could affect more than just everything after then. It could mess up the rest of their career.”

Billie started to understand as well. “They could break up now, or they could keep recording until forever. They could be the new Rolling Stones, still playing when we’re born. It could totally change us. We could not hook up properly, or be playing differently.”

Tré looked like he was going to cry. “It was the day before my _birthday_ you know.” He whined. Billie put an arm around the drummer’s shoulders.

“We can’t.” Jason said simply. Mike crossed his arms.

“We need to swear that we won’t say anything to them about themselves.” Mike said. Jason and Billie nodded in agreement, and all three turned to look at Tré. He heaved a tremendous sigh.

“Fine.” He crossed his arms and pouted. “I won’t say anything.”

Mike nodded. “Good... That’s settled.” He opened the door, returning to the main room. The Beatles looked up, almost guiltily. It was obvious that they’d in turn been talking about the new comers. They all settled back down on the floor, picking up the awkward air where it had been left off.

John finally cleared his throat. “So, you guys are really a band?”

Green Day exchanged looks.

“Well... Yeah.” Billie said. “Why?”

John shrugged, but Paul answered.

“It’s just sort of weird, you know? We’re a band, you’re a band. We’re getting lit, you’re getting lit.”

“We live in California, and you just happen to be vacationing in California.” Jason chimed in.

“It’s a pretty odd way for time travel to occur.” George finished. Mike raised an eyebrow.

“Like time travel has a normal way to occur?”

There was a pause, and then George smiled.

“Point taken.”

“It actually sort of makes sense.” Billie said.

“Maybe God got bored, and saw that we were putting ourselves in a similar position. So he said, ‘hey, there are some blokes, that looks like fun’.” Ringo finished. They all managed to laugh quietly.

John stood up. “I could use a drink.”

“Me too.” Paul and Billie spoke in unison, and then eyed each other, smirking. Shrugging, barely a care in the world, John brushed past them and into the kitchen. Paul and Billie followed him.

Tré eyed Ringo. “Do you have a drum set here?” he asked.

Ringo nodded.

“Can I use it?”

“Of course.” Ringo stood up, and Tré hastened to follow him. “Could I watch?”

“Who am I to deny an audience? I just need to let some feeling out, or I might beat the shit out of Mike.” Tré pulled a face at the bassist, and Mike returned the look.

The two drummers were off, leaving a pair of mismatched guitarists and one vaguely bewildered Mike Dirnt alone.

“So...” George said, turning back to Jason. “What was the rest of that story?”

Mike sighed.

***

Ringo was sitting atop an amplifier, watching Tré reorganise the drum kit, moving the cymbals around most. Finally, Tré sat down, tightening the hi-hat and testing the pedals, then entering a quick drum roll.

Tré, always a master of awkward conversations, looked up at Ringo. “So, your manager’s gay, right?”

Ringo jerked slightly, having been entranced by Tré’s drumming style. “Brian? Yeah.”

“That’s neat. Does he have a boyfriend?”

Ringo shrugged even as he was shaking his head. “No. He’s got a thing for hustlers, really. Not so much into the commitment. And he’s in love with John.”

“John’s married.”

“No one’s married on tour.”

“Tell that to Billie Joe.”

“That’s John’s philosophy. Who am I to argue?”

“Just the drummer.” Tré smirked. “It’s the percussionists curse. No one listens.”

There was a pause, and then Tré blinked.

“So, do John and Brian...”

“God no.” Ringo shook his head. There was another pause. “It’s John and George, usually. John comes to me on the rare occasions that George has got a bird.”

Tré’s drumming immediately ceased. He dropped one stick; it clanged noisily on the hi-hat before clattering to the floor.

“What?”

Ringo grinned. “I figure that because you’re from the future, it’s okay to tell you. Brian would die if he knew, so would the fans. But... well, tours get lonely, and birds are so disposable. No feeling whatever. Paul’s the only one who really likes sleeping with the girls Mal brings in.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Are tours really that different in forty years?”

Tré blinked. “No. That’s the weird thing. Well, I mean, not for us anyway. I know guys in other groups, like, bring their wives and kids with them on tour. But we just... erm... amuse ourselves?”

Ringo laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with that, I don’t think. Mo doesn’t know, and if she did, she probably wouldn’t care.”

“So, really, you’re all...”

“Except for Paul, yeah.”

“Well, that’s a mind fuck.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I suppose it could be a new rule. It’s not cheating if it’s with someone from a different decade.”_

Meanwhile, Billie was perched on the kitchen island, legs swinging slightly as he sipped at a glass of rum and coke. John was drinking the same beverage, leaning casually in the door frame. Paul stood against the side counter, pouring himself a glass of scotch.

“So...” Billie said awkwardly, swirling his glass.

“You play guitar? For your band, I mean.”

“Yeah.” Billie nodded, glad to have something to talk about. “Mostly. And I write.” After a pause, he smiled at them. “You guys are great song writers.” He blushes slightly, but John and Paul didn’t seem to notice.

“Thank you.” Paul smiled his happy stroked-ego smile.

“Always nice to hear a compliment from another musician.” John nodded. “Fans can be alright sometimes, but they usually don’t know shite.” Billie grinned at him. This really was the real John Lennon, no care, no fear.

“So.” John nodded, gesturing with his drink. “Come ‘ead. Play something for us.”

Billie’s smile immediately melted away, and he felt his blush creep across his neck.

“Oh... no. We don’t... we don’t exactly play the same kind of music.”

Paul crossed the small kitchen, pausing next to John and shaking his head at Billie. “We don’t care.”

“Music is music.” John said, beckoning again.

“Alright...” Billie said hesitantly. “But... um, if I play for you, could you play for me?” He asked sheepishly. John grinned at him.

“Sure.”

Billie slid from the counter and followed the pair of Beatles through the front room towards one of the bedrooms, John grabbing his guitar as they passed by the three left in the sitting room.

***

Mike was bored to tears.

Who would guess that George Harrison was such an avid reader, particularly of short stories? Sure, Mike recognised almost all of the titles they were throwing out (or at least the plot lines they were discussing at length), Mike had read them in High School. They were curricular. But George must have had to seek these things out, purely for enjoyment. As far as Mike remembered from school (a considerable length of time, so he was surprised he remembered any of it), most of them had been published in the late fifties and very early sixties.

“Of course I cried when the mouse died.” Jason said. “I think we all did. Although we all also tried to pretend we weren’t.” George was laughing quietly. “Even at thirteen years old, we all knew instantly that if Algernon was dead, that meant that Charlie was going to die.”

“And just when he’d gotten all he ever wanted in the world.” They shared a knowing smile before Jason continued on.

“What about Harrison Bergeron?”

“Always a bit odd, him having my last name as his first. Another one of those downer endings.”

“Aren’t they all? Like The Lottery? That was so unexpected, but also... like, totally unsurprising. With how all these other short stories end, it was bound to be something dark.” George nodded.

“Yeah, I read that too. It was almost funny how gung-ho ready for The Lottery the lady was,”

“Until it was her.” Jason finished. “Precisely.”

Mike finally stood up, unable to handle any more of this talk. He hadn’t particularly liked the damn stories, and he had been forced to read them and take tests on them.

“Bathroom?” he asked George. George looked up, and pointed down the only real corridor.

“Last door on the left.”

***

Billie sat down on the corner of Paul’s bed, holding John’s guitar gingerly. He loved playing for people, but it was a bit different to be playing to two incredibly attentive _musicians_. More so, these were the Beatles, this was the Lennon/McCartney song-writing team. What does a young punker from California play for two of the most well known names in music?

Of course, he’d known as soon as John had handed him the guitar what he would be playing. It wasn’t a question. You couldn’t play Longview or something like that for the Beatles. There was only one song for it.

Shaking his hands out nervously, Billie eyed the two Beatles for a moment before placing his fingers over the strings.

Good Riddance was beyond second nature by now, but it was weird to play it without hundreds, or even thousands of screaming fans singing along. Even stranger to look up and just see two pairs of inquisitive brown eyes looking back at him, silently analysing.

The song wrapped up easily, Billie heaving a heavy sigh of relief. At least he hadn’t fucked up. Finally, he looked at John and Paul. He’d considered asking them what they thought, but his throat wouldn’t cooperate. They looked right back at him for a moment, but then Paul broke into a grin.

“It’s very nice.”

“Fuckin’ depressing.” John added. Billie laughed aloud. Finally someone actually hearing and understanding the lyrics. Paul shoved John slightly.

“Depressing, maybe. But good.” He looked back at Billie. “I liked it a lot.”

“Thanks.” He said quietly, unable to wrangle his lips out of a smile. He’d just been complimented by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. His life would never be the same.

He stood up, and offered the guitar to them both.

“Your turn.”

John smiled, taking the guitar and Billie’s former position on the bed.

“Well, being from the future and all, you’ve probably heard all the old stuff...”

“He’s probably heard stuff we haven’t made yet.” Paul said plainly.

“Well, whatever the case may be, I’m gonna play something I’ve been working on, maybe for the next album. Instead of something off an old album.”

Billie nodded eagerly. John Lennon could play him Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and he would still be impressed.

As it was, John ran his fingers down the neck of the guitar, and then began to play.

Billie could swear his heart stopped in his chest. He had been expecting to hear something he recognised, but he hadn’t really thought about it. It was different, just an acoustic guitar and _that_ voice, but it was definitely Strawberry Fields Forever.

When he finished, Billie found his eyes pricking with tears of admiration. John Lennon had just played Strawberry Fields Forever. For _him_. Talk about disgustingly moving.

“It’s great.” He said quietly. “It’s great now, and it’s going to be _amazing_.”

***

Tré placed his hands on Ringo’s chest and pushed back firmly. He wasn’t sure if he should be more disturbed that he had just practically made out with Ringo Starr, or that Ringo Starr was a better kisser than Billie Joe. These were equally frightening sort of things.

“Whoa whoa whoa, wh-what about your wife?” He stuttered. Tré wasn’t exactly sure when Ringo had gotten around to where he was now, sitting on the edge of the bass drum, knees outside Tré’s own.

Ringo leaned back against the single tom behind him, shrugging one shoulder.

“Technically, we’re still on tour.”

“I thought you said that was John’s philosophy.” Tré’s heart was hammering hard in his chest, and he realised that it was partially because he wanted another kiss.

“And you said that no one listened to the drummer. It’s easier to just go along with what everyone else says. Besides...” Ringo tilted his head. “He’s right. And, like I said, Mo probably wouldn’t care.”

Tré blinked. “I suppose it could be a new rule. It’s not cheating if it’s with someone from a different decade. Or maybe, it’s not cheating if it’s with someone who technically isn’t alive yet.”

Ringo leaned forward, placing his hands on Tré’s knees.

“Are you gonna keep going on, or can I kiss you again?”

Tré answered by bringing his lips to Ringo’s, kissing him deeply. They managed a good twenty seconds before the door behind them opened.

“ _What_ the _fuck_ are you _doing_!?” It was Mike, having opened the last door on the right, instead of the left, and finding himself walking in on two drummers making out instead of a bathroom.

Tré and Ringo separated immediately, Tré’s mouth falling open in surprise.

“Mike!” He burst out. Ringo turned to look at him blandly.

“When I said we can’t fuck with the past, I should have also said that we can’t fuck _in_ the past!” Mike screamed.

Tré stuttered for a moment before finally managing to get his mouth and throat to cooperate.

“He came on to me!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Your drummer is not the first boy Richie’s kissed, and he’s certainly not going to be the last. So don’t worry so much.”_

The room-wide calm of mutual respect and admiration was shattered abruptly when John’s bedroom door flew open. Tré stumbled in, followed by the irate bassist that had pushed him. Mike in turn was followed by Ringo, whose head was hung in embarrassment. Jason and George, confused and inquisitive, respectively, peeked in around the door jamb, completing the odd group. Billie was the first to speak.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Not much.” Mike fumed. “Just Tré trying to _ruin the world as we know it_!” The accused sputtered indignantly when Billie turned on him.

“ _Tré_. You said you weren’t going to say anything!”

“I _didn’t_ say anything!”

“No.” Mike shook his head. “Sort of hard to say _anything_ with your tongue half-way down the throat of _Ringo Starr_.” Mike pointed at the other drummer accusatorily, and Ringo flushed an even deeper shade of red.

The feeling of the room changed perceptibly. Both Billie and Jason’s mouths fell open disbelievingly. George and Paul exchanged knowing glances, and George further rolled his eyes. John, smirking evilly, stood up from his perch on the bed and went to Tré. Placing his hands upon the smaller mans shoulders; John looked him over, and then glanced over at Ringo. He winked exaggeratedly at the blushing drummer.

“A nice catch, my lad.”

Billie and Jason’s mouths gaped even wider, and Mike’s mouth matched theirs promptly. George shook his head in amazement, and Paul threw his hands in the air, almost disgusted.

“Rich, you didn’t.”

Ringo shrugged one shoulder embarrassedly. John laughed aloud, nudging Ringo in a proud brother fashion.  
“You do quite well for yourself, Rich. Go on, get you lot out of here.”

“But—“ Mike snapped out of his complete confusion. “But he— you all—“

“We’re all pretty damn queer. Well, ‘cept Paulie.” John grabbed Mike’s arm, leading the still stuttering bassist to the door. Taking his cue, George grabbed Jason by the wrist and pulled the still gaping guitarist away.

John deposited Mike in the hallway. “Your drummer is not the first boy Richie’s kissed, and he’s certainly not going to be the last. So don’t worry so much.” Returning to the room, John grabbed a hold of the two drummers, and led them to the door as well.

“You,” John eyed Tré, “Cheer him up.” He jerked his head in Ringo’s direction. “Bastard’s so mopey all the time; he could use a bit of livening.”

With that said, John closed the door on the two drummers and the bassist, and locked it for good measure.

***

Mike blinked confusedly at the door that had closed in his face, and jerked slightly when the lock clicked. He rounded on Ringo, who was trying valiantly to sneak off with Tré in tow.

“Hold it.”

The drummers looked back guiltily. Mike pointed at Ringo.

“What did he mean, you’re all queer?”

Ringo shrugged.

“Not too hard of a concept, you know...”

***

“We all like a bloke every now and again, yeah.” John said, crossing his arms contrarily. “I’ve even gotten Paul to kiss me on occasion.”

“I’m usually quite drunk.” Paul interjected. John waved him off.

“Not a problem, is it?” John locked eyes with Billie. The smaller guitarist felt him drawn in, only partially against his will.

“So, you’ve kissed guys before?” Billie asked quietly. John nodded. “And you’ll kiss guys again?” John nodded again. There was a pause before Billie smirked. “In that case...”

Billie practically tackled him, their mouths crashing together in a frantic crush of lips and teeth and tongues. Billie lost his balance and stumbled backwards slightly, but John anticipated and moved with him, manoeuvring them both to the bed. Paul squeaked as the frenzied pair almost fell into him. After a moment, they broke apart, Billie panting and John giggling slightly.

John eyed Paul mischievously. “Paulie...”

“No bleeding way, John.” Paul shook his head, standing up and preparing to leave. John grabbed his wrist, stopping him short.

“Come ‘ead, Paul.” There was a pause, and John’s eyebrows wiggled dangerously. “He likes our songs.”

Paul sighed, looking Billie over, and then glancing back at John. He rolled his eyes and threw his arms out in defeat.

“Oh, Alright. But just this once.”

***

“Are you really all gay?” Jason asked, perched uncomfortably on the edge of George’s bed. George nodded.

“Somewhat. We’re not truly. I mean... John, Rich and I are married. And Paul’s got a fiancée. Strangely, Paul’s had the least... encounters, with men.”

“So you’re not... _gay_ , as it were. You’re more just...”

“Experimenting? Having fun? Changing it up a bit?” Jason coughed, and George laughed at him. “Something like that.”

“Why, though? If you’ve got wives... and I’m sure you’ve got enough groupies to keep you satisfied that way...”

George shrugged. “We’re a pretty close knit bunch. There’s something... I dunno, better, about being involved with one of your best friends, as opposed to... some random bird off the street.”

Jason nodded, somewhat understanding. There was a long pause, broken from the next room over by a passionate moan. Jason’s eyes went wide; that was Billie’s voice. George smirked.

“Damned if John’s not going to have fun.” He looked at Jason, quirking an eyebrow. “What about you? How do you feel about blokes?”

Jason blinked a few times. “I... I’ve kissed a guy or two in my day...” He neglected to mention that he was almost always drunk, and it was almost always Billie. George nodded anyway.

“Well, I’m feeling a bit bored meself, so...”

They locked eyes for a moment, and then Jason grinned uneasily. “Sure, why not?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Did you seriously just fuck John Lennon?”_

Mike’s eyes went wide as passionate moans bled down the hall from behind John’s locked door. There was a short pause before Tré started giggling uncontrollably. Mike turned to stare at Ringo, who was trying valiantly to not join Tré in his mirth.

“It, er... sounds like John is... having his way with your friend. And if I know John...” He paused, smirking, “which I do, I’d say he might have even gotten Paul to join in.”

There was a very long pause, as Mike stared down the hall. Ringo sidled over to Tré, engaging him promptly. Before long, Tré was trying hard to stifle moans that he knew would bother Mike. Ringo was giggling almost constantly into Tré’s mouth when Mike finally rounded on them, gaping for a full three or four minutes before Ringo finally turned to him. The small Englishman sighed heavily.

“Stop moping. Either get down there and join them, or get the fuck over here and join us, awright?”

Though it would seem quite impossible, Mike’s mouth opened wider.

“Wh-What?”

Ringo rolled his eyes.

“Would it bother you less if you were drunk?”

Mike mouthed wordlessly for a moment before finally shaking his head. “Y-yeah, probably.”

Ringo nodded, standing promptly from his perch across Tré’s lap. “I’ll go get the rum then.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mike gasped, as Tré buried his face in his hands, laughing so hard he was crying. Ringo paused in the doorway between the front room and the kitchen.

“No.” He shook his head, eyeing Mike. “You’re damn good looking, mate. Just fucking tense.” He grinned. “We’ll fix that.”

***

George pulled away from Jason slightly, raising a hand to his mouth.

“Erm... ow.”

Jason flushed a lovely shade of pale pink.

“Sorry.” Pushing George’s hand aside slightly, Jason bit his own lip at the sight of light teeth marks on George’s lower lip. “I’m sorry.” His voice fell to below a whisper, “Billie likes it...”

George rubbed at his lip a minute, smoothing out the marks.

“It’s alright. Didn’t really hurt too much. Just caught me by surprise.”

“I’ll... try to keep my teeth to myself.” Jason said.

George smirked.

“I never said you had to do that. Now I know to expect it. And I can reciprocate.”

They eyed each other for a long second before dissolving into manic giggles. George griped the front of Jason’s shirt, burying his face in the crook of Jason’s neck, gasping slightly.

“Allow me to do just that,” George hissed against Jason’s skin before grazing his teeth along Jason’s jaw.

Jason could swear a purr escaped his throat.

***

Five shots later (Mike had been somewhat pleased to learn that whiskey was also available), Tré took it upon himself to relieve Mike of his shirt. Three shots after that, the motley trio were sprawled oddly on the floor. Ringo sat with his legs crossed, Indian style. Mike’s head rested in his lap, his shirt gone into the ether. Tré, a good six shots in himself, was stretched out at Mike’s feet, humming idly to himself as he tapped an erratic rhythm on his chest.

Mike shifted slightly as Ringo’s fingers began tracing along his arms. Ringo's fingertips trailed absently over the inked skin, up and down each arm, once, twice, three times over. "I like these."

“Thanks?” Mike said, noting with a twinge of sheepishness a slight slur to the ‘s’.

“They’re very nice.” Ringo continued, his light touch moving across Mike’s chest.

“Thanks.” Mike repeated, more firmly.

There was a calm pause, possibly the first comfortable silence since Green Day had awoken to find themselves in 1965.

Tré, of course, had to ruin it.

“He’s a better kisser than Billie, you know.”

Mike lifted his head slightly to focus on the drummer at his feet.

“What?”

“Ringo.” Tré said, his voice inadvertently taking on a sing song quality, thanks to the constant rhythm in his head that his hands were tapping out. “He kisses better than Billie does.” Mike snorted.

“I doubt that.” He looked up at the Beatle above him. “No offence... but I’ve kissed... enough people. Billie’s damn good at doing what’s right.”

“Far be it from me to infringe on your beliefs.” Ringo said quietly. “But allow me to maybe argue my case?”

“What?”

Ringo eyed Tré, winking ever so imperceptibly, before leaning down over the bassist, engaging his lips in a disturbingly comfortable upside down kiss.

Mike was somewhat numb with disbelief. When Ringo finally sat back up, smirking proudly, Mike remained prone, mind spinning. Tré was right. Ringo Starr was a better kisser than Billie.

Too bad for Billie.

Mike was about to reach up for Ringo, bring him down for another kiss, when John’s door finally unlocked with a sharp click.

Mike sat up poker straight as the three that had been assembled inside filed out. He took in the wide smile splitting Billie’s face, Billie’s vaguely lop-sided gait. Mike knew the signs.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re fucking _glowing_.”

Billie only giggled in response, running a hand through his hair. Mike gaped, eyeing John and Paul, and noticing the same slight glow.

“Did you _seriously_ just _fuck John Lennon_?” Mike wailed, scrambling to his feet. Billie’s grin widened to Cheshire proportions. By now, Tré and Ringo were both watching the unfolding spectacle with interest.

“Actually... he fucked me.”

Mike shouted a long stream of obscenities, the first half directed at Billie, the second half at the entire room, indeed, the entire world, as he stomped angrily out the glass door to the balcony. He continued to curse as the slamming of the door resounded through the front room. Tré frowned slightly.

“Fuck, man. Total buzz kill.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m not sure whether to be glad that that almost makes sense, or to worry more because no one really knows.”_

There was a collective sigh. Ringo looked out through the glass door at the bassist pacing the length of the balcony.

“I think he still thinks that we’re going wreck something in some way.”

John, not a care in the world, crossed the room to his requisite piano, Paul following both out of habit and out of dazed inability to do anything else. Ringo looked around at Tre and the still somewhat giddy Billie.

“Does someone want to go talk to him?”

“Make George do it. He’s got a grip on this whole river-of-time rubbish.” John said, before turning to Paul, nudging him. “Go get something to write with.” Paul obliged, and John placed his fingers upon the keys, beginning to play.

Ringo ventured down the hall towards George’s room. The door was closed. He placed his hand upon the knob, wiggling it slightly only to find the door locked. Turning his ear towards the crack, he sighed. Shaking his head, he returned to the front room.

“It would seem our resident mystic is occupied.”

John continued to play, nothing in particular, although it sounded as if there was a moment of Fur Elise woven in there somewhere. Ringo sighed.

“No volunteers?”

Billie, it seemed, couldn’t hear. He was creeping towards the piano, entranced. Paul returned with a pad of paper and two pencils, sticking one behind John’s ear as if by second nature before regaining his seat. Ringo turned to Tre, giving the other drummer his most wounded puppy-dog eyes. Tre blushed faintly.

“He’s supposed to be the sensible one.”

“Just go talk to him, Rich.” John said, pausing in his playing. Billie’s face fell noticeably, and he immediately stopped trying to squeeze Paul off the bench, Paul having not noticed at all. “If he’s usually the ‘sensible’ one, and you know that you’re the sensible one... Just go talk to him. Or fuck him, or something.”

Ringo sighed heavily and turned towards the balcony as John resumed his playing. Billie could swear his legs were going to give out beneath him. He’d never known he’d had a piano fetish until this particular moment. Maybe that was why he never really objected when Jason Freese asked for a kiss...

=-=-=

“Er... Michael, right?”

“Mike.” he responded shortly. Ringo closed the balcony door after him, and pulled out his cigarettes.

“Ciggie?”

Mike took one without a word. Ringo lit it for him, then lit his own, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly. Mike leaned against the railing of the balcony, staring out into the ocean.

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly. Ringo eyed him, turning his back on the ocean and perching slightly on the rail. “It’s just... I don’t know. I’m still just a little afraid that something’s going to get fucked up, something’s going to go wrong.” Mike paused, dragging hard on his cigarette. Ringo nodded, sensing that he wasn’t done. “And it’s not just me I’m worried about, or the guys. It’s you guys too. I’m afraid that we’re fucking up... One of the greatest bands in history.”

Ringo nodded again, feeling completely at a loss for words. Curse George’s libido, this was definitely his territory. With a resigned sigh, Ringo decided to have his bash at reassuring the doubtful bassist.

“Well... I don’t really understand the time travel theorems and things that George was talking about... But from what I gather, if all this happening... Billie Joe and John and Paul, and Tre and I... If that were to really mess up that much in the future... You four, you wouldn’t have been together when you came here... So wouldn’t you have disappeared immediately? Or doesn’t time travel work that way?”

Mike stared at Ringo for a long moment.

“I’m not sure whether to be glad that that almost makes sense, or to worry more because no one really knows.”

Ringo tentatively placed his hand on Mike’s shoulder.

“Your friends would probably appreciate it more if you relaxed.”

Mike locked eyes with the diminutive drummer, struck slightly dumb by how much Ringo really reminded him of Tre.

Maybe... Maybe...

Mike raised a slightly shaking hand to the back of Ringo’s neck, and drew the smaller man forward for a kiss.

It was even better sober.

=-=-=

Billie couldn’t take it anymore. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, standing behind John and Paul as they picked through a song that Billie would have recognised, had he not been out of his mind with lust. He was waiting, just waiting for the perfect moment to...

John stood up, stepping awkwardly over the piano bench so as not to upset his carefully strewn lyrical scribbles, and turned around directly into the waiting Billie.

This time it was Billie who controlled the surprisingly graceful fall. John hit the bench somewhat hard, and Billie straddled his hips instantly. John fell backwards against the piano, the discordant note breaking Paul out of his post-coital reverie.

“Again?” He asked the pair of them.

“Apparently.” Was John’s hasty response between Billie’s maddened kisses. Paul eyed them both for a second before sliding his hand between their bodies.

“Well, I definitely want in.”

=-=-=

Tre had simply stared as all of this had unfolded, shaking his head almost disgustedly at Billie’s wonton behaviour.

Steeling himself for a possibly unholy talking too, Tre finally ventured out to the balcony, if just to escape the cacophonous sounds of John, Paul and Billie having sex for the second time in less than an hour, this time upon a piano.

Needless to say, the wary drummer was surprised (albeit pleasantly) to find that Mike wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t even angry anymore, it seemed...

Because he was making out with Ringo, and how.

Closing the balcony door behind him, Tre moved around behind Ringo, closing his teeth gently over Ringo’s earlobe.

“The sensible ones, huh?”

=-=-=

When George finally unlocked his door; exhausted, somewhat dehydrated, and leading an extremely giddy Jason by the hand; he was not so much surprised as just plain stunned at the sight that met him.

Two drummers and a bassist were still on the balcony, the three of them lucky that night had fallen quickly, lest they uncover secret exhibitionist natures they hadn’t intended to reveal. George couldn’t tell exactly what they were doing, but it was sure to be something good, judging by the moans that permeated even the thick glass door.

Three song-writers were congregated around the piano. Paul sat on the floor, leaning back against the bench, on which John was perched, slumped over the keys. Billie was lying flat across the top of the upright piano. All three of them were lacking shirts.

George shook his head, and squeezed Jason’s hand gently.

“Such a great bunch of sex obsessed fools.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“If it was, it was the most realistic wet dream I’ve ever had,”_

George puttered about the kitchen; boiling water in both a pot and a kettle. He dug around in the cupboards for a jar of pasta sauce that he knew was around there somewhere. Every couple of minutes, Jason would return from the dining room and ask for something else. Tea cups and saucers, plates or bowls, cutlery.

Considering that this house was only meant to hold the four Beatles, they were doing quite well at setting a table for eight.

Finally, George dropped the pasta into the boiling water, set the sauce to heating in a different pan, and carried the tea bags and sugar bowl out to the dining room. Jason looked up, smiling broadly, and George smiled back. A small (less mystic) part of George almost hoped that the four of them would be stuck here. He wouldn’t mind seeing Jason every day for a couple of years.

Setting the things down on the table, George grabbed Jason around the waist.

“Let’s go wake them.”

“They’re going to hate us. Well, Billie is anyway.”

“They have to eat, particularly if they plan on having any more sex tonight.”

They moved to the front room as one. Billie had somehow gotten off the piano without hurting himself, and was now curled tightly between John and Paul, somewhat _under_ the piano.

The other three had at some point gotten back into the house, though Ringo’s shirt was probably lost forever off the balcony. They too were curled into a tight embrace, all three.

All six of them were completely dead to the world.

“You take them.” George pointed towards the balcony door. “I’ll take them.” And he gestured towards the piano. Jason nodded, pressing a kiss to George’s cheek.

“Just in case Billie tears your face off.”

“Ta.”

George went to the group by the piano. Not at all subtle, he prodded John’s shoulder with his bare foot.

“Wake up, Johnny.”

John attempted to roll over to escape the obnoxiously cold foot (how did George survive without socks?), only to find his way obstructed by the solid mass that was Billie and Paul.

“Shite.” he mumbled into the floor. George laughed, moving around to wake Paul the same way.

Jason tried to be gentler. He went for Tré first. Crouching down, he grabbed the drummers shoulder and shook him gently.

“Tré...”

Tré mumbled something about carrots and kite flying, then rolled over onto his back, blinking up at the (to his view) upside down Jason.

“Morn’.” He said with a yawn.

“Actually, it’s about ten at night.” Jason corrected him, standing straight and going to Mike.

Ringo rolled over of his own accord, always a light sleeper.

When the six of them were finally roused enough to stand (though not without a lot of support among each threesome), George and Jason met again in the middle of the room. George looped his arms around Jason’s waist.

“I made some dinner.”

The pair of threesomes brightened visibly at this, and followed the less groggy and sex-glazed couple into the dining room. George and Jason left them to sit and returned to the kitchen. George got the pasta and sauce into a couple of serving bowls and found utensils for them, while Jason grabbed the kettle.

Returning the food and makings for the drink to the table, they sat down, and the eight of them dug in.

They made damn short work of the pasta, and even Mike submitted to drinking tea instead of his requisite coffee. It was, after all, late at night.

“Ready for bed proper?” George asked, as he and Jason rounded the table, clearing the dishes.

John groaned, and Tré perked up.

“Any chance of a night cap?”

“Like you need alcohol.” Mike muttered into his tea cup. Tré nudged him, a fake pout on his face. Ringo reached around Tré and pulled him away from Mike.

“Night caps are fine.” Jason intervened, carrying a stack of plates into the kitchen.

Whiskey, rum and brandy were found, and 8 clean tumblers.

Still sitting around the table, the eight toasted one another to good health (and great sex, though they already had that down, apparently).

Finally, the eight of them got up from the table, leaving the liquor glasses on the table.

“Who’s got the biggest bed?” John asked, looking around as they stood awkwardly in the front room, still split into two groups of three and one couple.

“I think I do.” Ringo said.

“Right.” Paul nodded, knowing where John was headed with this train of thought. “Off we go to Rich’s room.”

The assorted members of Green Day exchanged looks, then followed the four Beatles to the room in question. Climbing into the enormous king sized bed, the four Brits looked expectantly at their guests (as it were).

“Are you kidding?” Mike said.

George shook his head.

“It’s nice. Comfortable. We do it a lot.”

“Not with eight people, I bet.”

Ringo grinned. “We did once. D’ye all remember?” He looked around and they all smiled knowingly.

“The other four were birds, granted, but still. It’s quite comfy.” John gave Billie his patented ‘come hither’ stare, and Billie found himself climbing onto the bed, right between Paul and John.

Tré and Mike exchanged glances as Jason too crawled onto the bed, ending up comfortably against George with Ringo at his back.

Shrugging, Tré added himself to the mix, and Mike sighed.

“Awh, why not.”

He flicked the light switch by the door, and crawled into a pair of waiting arms. In the new darkness, he couldn’t tell if they were Ringo’s or Tré’s, but he had a suspicion that it was one of each.

The eight of them fell asleep comfortably.

=-=-=

Ringo awoke with a jolt.

“Tré?”

John too rolled over, ending up on top of Paul.

“Wha’s goin’ on?”

George also woke up to find his arms curled around nothing at all.

“They’re gone.”

Paul sat up, causing John to roll off him again.

“Please don’t tell me that was a dream.”

“If it was, it was the most realistic wet dream I’ve ever had,” John mumbled.

Ringo, sitting in the dark, ran his hands together, and smiled slightly to himself.

“It wasn’t a dream.”

=-=-=

Tré rolled off the couch, landing hard on Mike, who was on the floor.

“What the fuck!?” Mike shouted, waking Billie and Jason in the same moment.

“What the fuck.” Billie echoed.

“I just had _the_ most _fucked up_ dream.” Mike said.

“Christ, I think _I_ did.” Billie grumbled. “ _And_ my ass is killing me.”

Jason sat up groggily, still feeling the ghosted arms around his waist. “Did we all have the same dream?”

The three of them looked carefully at each other, then all spoke one word at the same moment.

“Beatles?”

They all blinked and blanched white at one another.

“It wasn’t real.” Billie said sternly.

“It couldn’t have been.” Mike agreed.

“No way.” Jason said, somewhat sadly.

There was a pause, then Tré cleared his throat.

“Um, guys?”

The three guitarists turn to look at the bewildered drummer. He held up his left hand. There, on his pinkie finger, was a gold ring with an oval-shaped black stone. A ring he’d never had before, but that he recognised. That they all recognised.

“I... I don’t think it was a dream.”


End file.
